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hearth, was a wooden walking stick. Below it, a wedge of women’s magazines. Two years since Sylvie died. Manny was talking again, so Lewis had to concentrate to take in what he was saying. The old man was hunting around amongst the things on the shelves, slipping his hand behind the photographs. In a twin oval frame, two children stared at him; the girl was about six or seven, but the boy was older. He was wearing a school uniform and an insolent expression. Manny drew out a small bottle and offered it first to Lewis. He didn’t recognize the label, but he twisted the cap and smelled whisky.
    As it’s a special occasion, said Manny.
    I am honoured, laughed Lewis.
    Not you, sunshine, said Manny, without missing a beat, It’s our Ned’s birthday!
    Lewis knew the uniformed child in the picture, and he knew the uniform: a navy blue blazer with a crest on the pocket of a golden eagle, two-headed. The heads faced in different directions, and the first time he saw the crest, trying on the blazer in the corner of the Co-op while his mother slipped the coupons over the counter, he thought it was a cartoon figure, caught in mid-frame—Foghorn Leghorn on the look-out for Miss Prissy. The tie was shot through withsilver and navy diagonal stripes, which, after a few days, the new boys fashioned into tight knots, to be like the older boys. His school shoes were a worry for his mother. She kept saying he hadn’t grown into his feet, but for him, the problem was wearing them at all. The men’s ones looked hideous, old-fashioned; the sort of thing a teacher might wear. His brother Wayne never had that problem, being small and wiry. No one thought of them as twins. Lewis’s mother ironed their school shirts on Sunday nights, and clean ones appeared on the back of the chair next to their bunk-beds on Wednesday mornings. Sometimes Lewis remembered to put his on and sometimes he forgot.
    You’ll recall our two, said Manny, sensing Lewis’s interest in the photographs. He fetched the frame down from the cabinet and stood behind Lewis’s chair. He took a moment while Lewis scrutinized the two children.
    You wouldn’t recognize Sonia now, he said, Here, I’ve got a recent one somewhere.
    He turned back to the shelves and brought down a Christmas card. Inside, there was a photograph of a woman on a beach. She was standing with her arms outstretched and her head thrown back, her dark hair in jagged spikes, like a sea urchin, or as if she’d just dipped her head in the ocean. You could tell she was laughing, even though only her neck and chin were clearly visible. Her shadow cast a sharp angle on the sand. At her back was a cloud of black light hanging over the sea, and a roil of churning waves, almost as inky as the sky. Lit up by a flare of late sun, a line of distant white pinpricks stood on the horizon.
    She’s pretty, I reckon, said Lewis, holding the photograph between finger and thumb.
    She’s a stunner. Gets it from Sylvie, said Manny, And her temper and all. She’s living away, now, working on some ecology project. Wind-farms in the North Sea, that sort of thing. Gets her brains from her mam too.
    It’s a good shot, said Lewis, Did you take it?
    Manny made a comedy face.
    Me? Very likely. Carl took it. He’s up there most of the time, back here the odd weekend. Thick as proverbials, them two.
    Nice beach, any road, said Lewis, for something to say.
    It’s over east, said Manny, and with an arid laugh, As far from here as you can get. The edge of the world, she calls it.
    Manny took the photograph and stared at it a while longer before putting it back on the shelf.
    You don’t see much of him, then? asked Lewis, feeling the bite of whisky in his throat.
    Ah. You won’t have forgotten our Carl. More than I care to, if I’m honest.
    Lewis shifted in his chair, feeling the silence.
    Still not getting on?
    Let’s just say we agree to disagree. But,